Beyond the gate, we were met and welcomed by crowds of clerics, lords, and citizens, brilliant in multicolored robes and dress. The Archbishop of Dublin was pointed out to me, as was the Archbishop of Armagh. More importantly, I saw (as I was told) the greatest lord in the country, the Earl of Kildare. He saluted me in grand fashion. I returned as much.
Welcoming speeches were made to me. Gifts were given. I listened to the speeches as if every word had grave import. As for the gifts, I was generous in my thanks but never touched them, since they were whisked away by Lincoln’s servants. He kept them.
Most importantly, I could see and feel that these Irish welcomed me as their true king. Crowds of people of all kinds and quality lined the streets, acknowledging me with adoring cheers. “Long live King Edward the Sixth! God save our king.”
Here I was already a king.
We reached Dublin Castle. It was a massive fortification built of the same dark gray stone I had seen everywhere. High towers guarded each of its four corners, and a small river, like a moat, ran to the south and east of it. Did not every boy want his own castle? I had one.
With the blaring of horns and the beating of drums, we entered the castle from the northern side, going through the first gates, a barbican that was flanked by two more tall towers. As we passed under it, I could see the portcullis gates—like sharp teeth—ready to bite.
Beyond the stout outer fortification, we moved along a tunnel, which cut though a massive curtain wall, into a wide and open bailey. There, hundreds of Irish soldiers were waiting to greet me.
When I rode in, these Irish troops rushed forward—momentarily alarming me—only to stop short and cry out a roaring welcome. “Ard Rí na hÉireann!” they shouted, which, as I would learn, meant they’d greeted me as the high king of Ireland.
Astride my horse I turned to Lincoln and said, “Lincoln, this is my army.”
He nodded but said nothing. I wondered what he was thinking.
Off to the right was a great hall, the King’s Hall, or the donjon, as they called it. First, however, we went to a small church, St. Mary del Dam, within the castle walls. Before a statue of Our Lady, a priest gave thanks for our safe arrival in Ireland. As I knelt, I gazed upon the serene face of Mary—who was wearing a beautiful golden crown—and prayed fervently that she would be by my side in times to come.
Next, I was led into a hall, wide and tall, with huge beams above. Many tables had been laid out, all spread with heaps of food.
The feast was endless; the speeches, all addressed to me, long. I sat in a great chair, which I fancied was a throne. Oh, how I worked to listen, pretending sincere interest in the words. Then I had to greet many important people who approached with much bowing, kneeling as they proclaimed their loyalty, their belief in me, Edward, Earl of Warwick.
During the long welcome, some tumblers came in to turn and twirl in fantastical ways. The performers made me remember those players in Oxford. I recalled the platform on which that interlude was played. What a greater stage I had! Even so, I wished that false king could see me now. I could teach him how to play a true king.
Meanwhile I watched as Lincoln and Lovell went off in a corner and conferred with various lords and clerics. I had no doubt they were plotting for their own future. We three were moving along the same road. I wondered if they had any suspicion that I intended to go a different way and leave them behind.
At length, to my great relief, Lincoln and some local lords led me to a large room where there was a fine bed and oak furniture. I was told this was to be my room while I was in Dublin.
The others who had attended me bowed away so only Lincoln and I remained.
“You did well,” he said.
“What happens next?” I asked.
“We need to assemble a larger army. Bigger than the one Henry used to overthrow Richard. Once that’s done, you’ll lead your army back to England and defeat Henry Tudor.”
I nodded, hoping my trembling would not be noticed.
“I promise you,” said Lincoln, “that false king Henry is hated by all. As soon as we land in England and news of your arrival spreads, people will flock to you. Your army will be vast.” He gave his untrue smile and turned toward the door.
Maybe it was because we were alone. Perhaps it was his smile, in which I had had no faith, or that I had seen him conferring with others, but I suddenly called out, “My lord, do you see how the people flock to me, not you.”
Lincoln paused, turned, and considered me. “Of course. As you are the rightful heir, my lord, it’s only natural that they turn to you.”
I said, “Brother Simonds told me King Richard chose you to succeed him.”
“Alas, Richard only said it. By the laws of succession you are meant to be the king. It’s you the people will follow, not me.”
“Is that why you needed me?” I cried out. “Because an army would follow me—the Earl of Warwick—but not you?”
He stood very still. I had not the slightest doubt that I had guessed right and that we now knew each other perfectly. He the high one. I the low. He the adult. Me the boy. But he had made me greater than himself. He’d turned me into what he needed. Now I was more powerful than him.
“My lord,” was all he said, “you will be meeting many people. I suspect some will ask you how you managed to escape from the Tower of London. Best not to mention Brother Simonds.”
“What shall I say?”
“You need to show them how brave you were.”
“I know nothing about the Tower.”
“Tomorrow, Lovell and I will tell you all you need to know. Good night.” That time he did not bow. The door closed. I heard the lock clack shut.
When Lincoln left me, I lay on the soft bed and thought about the great army I would be leading into battle. I had no doubt Lincoln was right. As soon as King Henry knew we were coming, he would flee in fright.
Or so I hoped.
Then I would deal with Lincoln.
Would he flee too?
Or would he turn on me?
THIRTY-ONE
I WAS TAKEN to Dublin’s Christ Church Cathedral—along with Lincoln—by his Grace, Walter Fitzsimons, the Archbishop of Dublin, a small old man of deep but soft voice, which he used slowly.
“Here, my lord,” the archbishop said to me, “is where you will be crowned.”
I looked about in wonder. I had never seen such a great building. There was an immense nave of five bays of triple arches on each side, each bay surrounded by vast pillars. Its elaborate walls were light in color, in contrast to the multicolored glass windows, colors I could not begin to name. Carvings everywhere. In front of the choir stalls I could see the sanctuary, and beyond that the Lady Chapel. Nothing that had happened before made my becoming king as real as that moment. The wonder of it!
“You shall march down the nave,” the archbishop informed me, “with Lords Lincoln and Neville by your side. The lords of Ireland will follow. I’ll proclaim you and crown you Edward the Sixth.”
At that point, the archbishop paused, and turning to Lincoln, I asked, “Have you a crown?”
Lincoln hesitated, as if puzzled, before saying, “I shall get one.”
Later that day, we returned to the castle. As soon as we entered, Lincoln said, “The crown.”
When he headed for the small castle church, I followed. He strode in and approached the statue of Our Lady. To my great shock, he reached up and plucked the crown from Her head. “Now we have something for your coronation.”
In stealing Mary’s crown, I was sure he had committed a grave sin. I was sure something bad would follow.
I was right.
The next day, Lincoln asked me to meet with the Archbishop of Armagh.
“I am tired of meeting people,” I said. “Do I have to?”
“Anyone who can lend you support is important,” Lincoln told me. “Moreover, he insists upon meeting you alone.”
“Why?”
“I have no idea. Now,
do as you’re told.”
I knew what those words meant.
I sat in a large, leather-padded chair in a small room when the archbishop came. He was an old, stout man, dressed in flowing robes, which bunched upon the floor so that he seemed to be in a state of melting. Moreover, he came forward with small, halting steps. His old hands, much wrinkled, were, I noticed, shaking.
He drew close, paused, and peered up at me from under shaggy eyebrows. His eyes were watery. I waited for him to speak, but he continued to stare at me, until, in a raspy voice, he said, “Boy, who are you?”
Startled, I said, “I am Edward, Earl of Warwick,” and repeated my lineage.
When I was done, the archbishop just stood there and continued to look at me.
Then he said, “Boy, you are not who you say you are. I knew the young Earl of Warwick at King Richard’s court. You look something like him—the same color hair and eyes. Somewhat his size. But you are an imposter. A nothing.”
The archbishop’s words jolted me. I wanted to speak, to deny what he said, but he lifted a shaking hand to silence me.
“The Earl of Lincoln has tried to convince the world that you are the true Earl of Warwick. You, poor, misled boy, have gone along with him. You are his tool to attract an army. The people won’t follow Lincoln. They will follow a Warwick. You can pass as him. But once you’re in London, Lincoln will have no more use for you. You’ll stand between him and the throne.”
His words brought back all my alarms and fears. I had no idea what I could say.
“Beware, boy,” he went on. “To take the throne, Lincoln must kill you. And he will. May God have mercy on your soul.” The archbishop made the sign of the cross, bowed, turned, and slowly left the room.
I sat there truly quaking. It was hard to breathe. To swallow. I felt terribly alone in that room. There could be little doubt, two people wished to kill me: Henry and Lincoln.
I formed a plan: The moment I heard word of Henry’s surrender, I would have Lincoln and Lovell arrested and executed. I told myself that they could have no idea what I was planning. I convinced myself that I was in control.
THIRTY-TWO
MAY 24, 1487. A most splendid day!
In the great nave of Dublin’s Christ Church Cathedral, during a magnificent ceremony, I was crowned King Edward the Sixth of England. During that ceremony, long and solemn, I worked hard to appear grave. But in my head I called myself King Lambert the First.
Among the thousands in attendance (in and out of the cathedral) were the bishops of Cloyne, Meath, and Kildare. And many great Irish lords, among them Sir Roland FitzEustace, and the Earl of Kildare. Lincoln and Lovell were witnesses, of course, along with the commanders of my army. So too were minstrels, heralds, singers, and musicians.
I was draped in robes of crimson and white, along with green silk slippers. Walter Fitzsimons, the Archbishop of Dublin, placed the crown on my head, proclaiming, “God save Edward the Sixth!”
The people roared, “God save Edward the Sixth!” When that happened, was I solemn? Not at all! I was grinning, overflowing with delight. I was England’s king! I had done it. It may seem absurd, but what came into my head? I wished Master Tackley was there.
I confess my favorite moment came when I was hoisted upon the shoulders of Lord Darcy of Platen, said to be the tallest man in Ireland. He carried me out and about the streets of Dublin, where throngs cheered for me. How they loved me! To all, I threw groats newly stamped with my sovereign name, Edward the Sixth.
After much banqueting in the castle, long speeches, and much homage and music, I stole out at night and slipped into that small church, St. Mary del Dam. There, I replaced the crown that had been stolen from Mary’s head. I also fell on my knees and asked forgiveness. I also gave my thanks to my Lady that I, Lambert Simnel, a want-wit, a muckworm, a nobody, a boy with no more worth than a spot of dry spit, had become king of England.
If ever there had been a miracle, I was one.
Even so, I knew I needed more miracles to make sure I held my kingship.
THIRTY-THREE
ONCE I HAD been crowned, a parliament was convened, which proclaimed my rule in England and in Ireland. I tried to make sense of the things that were said, the speeches made. I did understand that some Irish traitors were denounced, their lands seized. The rest I found boring. Once, I admit, sitting there, I fell asleep. I had to be nudged awake, only to find the eyes of the assembly all on me.
My days in Dublin passed much too slowly, though they were filled with many gatherings during which I had to meet the great men of Ireland. The most important were Gerald Fitzgerald—Earl of Kildare—and his brother Thomas Kildare. Also Sir Roland FitzEustace, a great Irish lord. They treated me and spoke to me as their lord, their king. Just as Lincoln predicted, they asked me how I had freed myself from the Tower of London.
Happily, Lovell and Lincoln had tutored me and described the Tower in great detail. I told a story that was bold, full of dangers and miraculous escapes. The more I related it, the better it became, as I learned to hold my audience’s rapt attention. All the same, I was careful not to reveal the names of those who’d helped free me, saying I must protect them from the wrath of King Henry.
Each day I walked through the streets of Dublin distributing groats, the ones that bore my name. Citizens crowded to see me, showing their devotion and respect for their king. How they cheered when I passed.
In the many weeks that followed, a larger and larger army was assembled. The most important of those to join me was Martin Schwartz, who came from across another sea, from Europe. A famous Swiss soldier, he was renowned for his fierceness. Short and stocky, thick with muscles, his swaggering air forced one to look at him. He made a speech to me, with many a bow. His language being German, I understood none of it, but I was told that he and his soldiers vowed to support my right to the English throne, though it might mean their deaths. I gave a speech of thanks in return. I don’t think he knew what I said. I had this thought: We are all players.
Lincoln informed me that having these Germans absolutely assured me victory over Henry.
These German soldiers had great mustaches and wild hair. Each carried two swords, one attached to his waist, another, much longer, in hand. Their helmets were round and fit closely over the head, like a skullcap, while body armor covered their chests and legs down to their knees.
My Irish soldiers had no armor, were generally bearded, had bare feet, and carried broadswords and long, sharp daggers, what they called scians. Their strength and a certain wildness made me love them.
Some English soldiers also came to us. Lincoln informed me we had gathered an army of eight thousand. That was far more than Henry used to defeat Richard at Bosworth.
Meanwhile, Lovell was working hard to secure ships to carry these troops to England.
I had no doubt that Henry was quaking.
During this long time, Lovell also gave me instructions on how to use a sword. He being one of the great knights in my kingdom, his instruction was the best. I was on my way to becoming a fine soldier, he said.
Finally, on a bright clear day, my army, with me in the first ship, sailed down Dublin’s river. The cheers from those on shore were delightful to hear. I was their young warrior king. Thus we set out upon the Irish Sea with God’s good winds speeding us toward England’s shores.
I had no doubt: I was invincible. And I was on my way to London.
THIRTY-FOUR
HAVING GOOD WINDS, it took just hours to reach the Furness Peninsula along the English Cumbrian shore. By the time we got there, the day had turned blustery, with weighty clouds scudding overhead. The area chosen was bleak, desolate, and muddy, with little vegetation on the rocky shore. The only life I saw were circling sea birds, whose constant squawking suggested they took offense at our arrival.
By agreement, I was the first to step ashore, and with Lincoln and Lovell just behind me, I went down on my knees. Having practiced my words, I proclaimed my righ
t to the crown of England loudly, denounced Henry as a usurper, and prayed: “Judge me, O Lord, and favor my cause.” It was the same prayer, I had been told, that Henry had made before defeating King Richard. Oh, how well did I know my part!
The soldiers began to disembark.
We were met and welcomed by Sir Thomas Broughton—a knight who had been loyal to King Richard and who had fought with him at Bosworth. He brought a few troops to add to our force. These soldiers were the first of what I was told would greatly swell our numbers. My hope grew that Henry, hearing of my landing and of how many soldiers I had, would flee.
The bay we had entered was deep, so our ships, which had to go back and forth to Ireland to bring every soldier, had no problems. Nonetheless, it took two days to gather our entire army on land. The enormous force—more than eight thousand men—fairly bristled with swords, spears, mareskipes, bows, guns, and halberds.
I took to wandering among the troops, watching them work and hone their weapons, sharpening, fixing, or practicing with them. How they loved it when I, their young king, mingled among their ranks.
I told them they were unbeatable and said how splendidly they would be rewarded when we defeated Henry in the battle soon to come. These words always brought cheers; the cheers, in turn, gave me extra strength.
On June the fifth, we gathered our forces together and began heading east. Lovell, Lincoln, and I were in the vanguard, leading what was meant to be a quick march deep into England. I was mounted on a black horse, dressed lavishly, with a burnished breastplate that had been made just for me, my own sword at my side. A soldier with my new-made standard rode nearby.
Was this not what every boy wished for, to lead a glorious army to victory? I felt great excitement, and told myself I was full of courage.
Somewhere south, I knew, was the tyrant Henry, with whatever pathetic forces he had raised. I kept reminding myself that my soldiers would defeat him roundly and then I’d go on to be crowned again in London.